PhotoLuke is the blond, 3-year-old boy who lives in the house in front of mine. He is so unbelievably beyond cute he should be manufactured by Sanrio. Of course I said yes when he asked me to go Easter egg hunting with him. First thing Sunday morning, I told him, since I had never been hunting for eggs and he seemed to like it alright. Sure enough, the little literalist took me to task and came knocking on my door at seven ayem the following morning. So I dragged myself out of bed to help him find some eggs.
Sometimes I think Luke is drunk, since his motor and verbal skills haven’t quite learned to keep up with his accelerated energy level. But when I see him that early in the morning, the whites of his eyes the color of egg shells, I know he’s never seen a late night in his entire life. Truth be told, he makes me nervous. He seems great, but I never know what I’m supposed to say to the fellow, or his 6-year-old brother, whose communication skills are only slightly more advanced. I guess we could talk about insects or dinos, but I’m always worried it’ll be obvious that I would rather be reveling in the glittered, feathered, plastic rhinestoned world of girlhood, discussing the merits of Ariel versus Jasmine.
Turns out there’s not much talking involved in hunting for Easter eggs. I poked around in the yard with him for a while, ate some chocolate, and went back to bed, not to be seen again for several more hours.
Listening to monologist Mike Daisey feels like sitting in on an evangelist sermon, circa 1964 — except that instead of preaching about heaven and sin, Daisey aims his fire-and-brimstone discourse at corporate rule, capitalism, the covert history behind the Monopoly board game, and his childhood experience of visiting a slaughterhouse in Maine. The stage set is nothing fancy — just Daisey sitting at a table with a glass of water — but his repertoire of razor-sharp observations is all he needs to keep your attention.
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